


another auld lang syne

by shuuuliet



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: AU post s07e07: Deeez Nups, Auld Lang Syne, But a happy ending!, Christmas Eve, F/M, Holidays, Old Feelings, Pining, Shules, but maybe he's ready to stop?, figure it out guys come on, happy new year, jules in love, like...heavy pining, mentions of s03e16: An Evening with Mr. Yang, mentions of s06e09: Neil Simon's Lover's Retreat, mentions of s07e07: Deeez Nups, mentions of s07e08: Right Turn or Left for Dead, old feelings resurfacing in a big way, please and thanks, poor jules honestly, post-established shules, read the author's note, shawn in love, shawn is still...always running, there's so much yearning in this you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuuuliet/pseuds/shuuuliet
Summary: Five years ago, after Lassiter’s wedding, Juliet asked for space. (She’s regretted it ever since.)Five years ago, after Lassiter’s wedding, Shawn left Santa Barbara. (He’s regretted it ever since.)Now, a chance meeting at the grocery store on Christmas Eve just might give them the opportunity they both yearn for to make their way back home…AU, after 7x07: “Deeez Nups”, and 7x08: “Right Turn or Left for Dead”.Some plot loosely based on Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne”.
Relationships: Juliet O'Hara & Carlton Lassiter (mentioned), Juliet O'Hara/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 18
Kudos: 30





	another auld lang syne

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (almost) New Year, ladies and gents! 
> 
> This is my very first actual AU, based on the idea that Shawn leaves Santa Barbara after the breakup at Lassiter’s wedding (and Juliet’s subsequent request for space), and doesn’t return until almost five years later. The title (and a good portion of the plot, though it certainly diverges) are borrowed from Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne” (1980) which I highly recommend listening to, both to spot the references in this fic, and also because it’s one of my all-time favorite holiday songs, even though that makes me sound like a much sadder person than I actually am. Also, I intended this to be around 2500 words and it’s…almost 6000. Yikes. Sorry.
> 
> A quick but important disclaimer: although open container laws in Santa Barbara are, in my understanding, as I have written them here, my interpretation hinges on several technicalities. Please don’t ever have an open container in/around a car, regardless of whether or not it’s parked. I do not condone that, nor do I condone Juliet’s repeat of Declan-era behavior in this fic. (Trying to avoid spoilers and be a decent human all at once is tough.)
> 
> I don’t own the song, and I don’t own Psych. I hope you enjoy this, though!

It’s been almost five years. Somehow, imperceptibly sometimes, and agonizingly obviously on other days, five years have passed, and he is still gone. As far as she’s aware, he’s been gone since she asked him to leave, and he’s never returned.

It had taken some time, to come to forgiveness, but she had. She had been getting a lot of practice, before that, in understanding him, and so slowly, she began to understand why he did what he did, and even why he ran. She didn’t begrudge him for it, anymore—she’d asked for space, after all, and he’d given it, not bothering her, not trying to convince her it wasn’t a big deal, just letting her be.

It’s just that she had thought he would come back. That was the part that hurt the most. She understood why he left, but she didn’t understand why, as days turned to weeks and then weeks to months, he didn’t come back.

She doesn’t remember exactly when it was that she realized for certain that he’d left permanently. True to form, he had never announced that he had—not to Gus or his dad, and certainly not to her. But she remembers the slow discovery, how it had crept in, seeping in through all the cracks in her heart, all the little ways she missed him, until finally her whole self just seemed to ache with the knowledge of the fact that this really was _it_ , it really was over.

It took her longer than that to realize that that meant that she may never see him again. She took a whole day off work for that one.

But that was worse. Because when she woke up, night after night, crying from dreams in which things had gone so differently, she woke up in their bed, next to a pillow that still faintly smelled of him, and the ache of yearning for him encompassed everything.

At work, she was fine. Well, no, she wasn’t, but she put on a nice mask of fine-ness, not letting it slip for anyone except her partner, and even then, after a while, not even for him, when her suitable mourning period seemed over, after he had consoled her, day after day, in his usual gruff, awkward manner that endeared him to her so much.

But that was then, at the beginning, just after Shawn left. Now, she talks about him sometimes, in used-tos and had-beens; everything in past tense. She can make no definitive statements on who he is now, after all—if there’s one thing Shawn Spencer is not, it’s fixed.

It does not get easier.

She thought it might; waited until she was she was ready before she ever uttered his name out loud, but it made no difference. The anger, after all, has long since been gone, and all she’s left with is an ache, a longing for him that can never be satisfied. And so it shattered her just as much to say his name now as it had when she used to have to hear it all the time, just after.

But now it’s maybe worse, because now there are enough new officers around that never knew him, never met him, haven’t even heard the stories. It’s worse to have to explain him to them, because they’ll never quite _get_ it.

You just can’t really put Shawn into words; she never could. So she stops talking about him as much as she can, stops mentioning old cases, old leads, unless she absolutely has to. When Gus or Henry come around, she never has to say his name—they volunteer the bits of information they have without her asking, knowing without making her say so that she’s desperate to know. They miss him just as she does, although in different ways, and sometimes she’s jealous of the fact that even though Shawn is a lousy communicator, at least they still hear from him.

She never does, and now it’s been far too long to tell him she forgives him, if she even knew how to get a hold of him. If he wanted to see her, to talk to her, he would have, she tells herself, and so she maintains the distance he’s put between them, even though sometimes it breaks her.

She avoids Madeleine entirely when she comes by the station to do psych evals. She knows Madeleine would see right through her, and she doesn’t need Shawn’s mom knowing that, all these years later, Juliet is still in love with her son. But Madeleine doesn’t ever seek her out, and sometimes Juliet wonders if she is intentionally giving her space, knowing that she needs it.

She dates a bit—not a lot, but some—and eventually she finds herself a boyfriend. Matthew. A serious guy, a lawyer. He is everything Shawn was not.

He doesn’t make her laugh, but he is good to her. And that’s enough. All she wants is enough.

She doesn’t tell him about Shawn, not directly. She vaguely mentions an ex she was serious with, but dismisses it as “a long time ago”. Matthew doesn’t press. He never pries. He never asks anything of her that she doesn’t volunteer.

Sometimes she wishes he would—the digging is often when the adventure happens.

Sometimes she lies awake in bed, next to him—they don’t live together, but she stays over sometimes, going through the motions--and she tries to convince herself that being bored is a good thing. Well, she tries not to think the word “bored”; she rebrands it as “stable”. Because that’s what she wants, isn’t it? He is stable, he is mature, he is a good guy.

He is, as she always returns to, everything Shawn wasn’t. After all, if Shawn were here, he wouldn’t use the word “stable” unless it was to make some kind of horse joke.

She hates that she still remembers how he thinks, but even as she hates it, she clings to it, desperate to hold on to any piece of him as long as she possibly can, terrified that she might one day forget, let it all slip away, just like he had.

The holidays are the hardest part. Even though she and Shawn only spent a few Christmases actually _together_ , they were the best in her life. So when Matthew leaves Santa Barbara to see his parents for the holidays, she declines his invitations, using work as an excuse, but the truth is, there’s always a tiny piece of her that _can’t_ leave at Christmas, wondering if maybe this is the year he’ll come back, reappear as suddenly as he’d left. And besides, it’s too hard to even imagine trying to celebrate the holiday without him, as pathetic as she feels admitting that to herself.

She knows, deep down, that she should pay attention to the fact that it’s a relief to have Matthew gone at Christmas, leaving her to herself, and that he didn’t seem terribly disappointed to leave her, but she doesn’t have the energy to really consider that. Still, she wonders when they say their vaguely emotion-less goodbyes to one another whether they’re both wondering if this should just be their last goodbye. She wonders if it would be as much of relief to him as she’s starting to realize it might be to her, the stability thing notwithstanding.

She doesn’t dwell on any of it; instead, she fills Christmas in little, non-Christmas-y ways, trying not to think of Shawn, finding herself at Bazo’s Grocery at eleven at night on Christmas Eve, just before it closes, doing her regular grocery shopping, hating and also relishing the emptiness of the store. It’s Christmas-y enough, a few decorations around the store, and a strange, saxophone-heavy instrumental Christmas song playing on the store radio, but it’s not so Christmas-y that it would make her sad. She pretends it’s just another night in December, just another late shopping trip after too many hours of overtime, and it works well enough—it’s easy to chalk the absence of other shoppers up to the late hour rather than the date.

She takes her time, wandering aimlessly through the aisles, trying to decide whether she should get something festive for dinner the next day, and even taking a moment to look at the frozen ham and turkey dinners, before realizing with a sudden pang of sadness that she doesn’t really care.

And it’s there that the familiar voice finds her, though she almost doesn’t quite register it at first; it’s too much to believe.

“Jules?”

She freezes, almost dropping the frozen vegetables in her hands, willing herself not to turn around just yet, although it’s all she can do to keep from throwing the vegetables in the air and chasing the sound of that voice wherever it may lead.

No one’s called her that in nearly five years. No one would dare try, and she wouldn’t let them if they had.

At last, she turns around.

And there he is.

Time has been good to Shawn—in so many ways, he looks just as she remembers; a little thinner, perhaps, but his scruffy stubble is the same. His eyes still seem to shine, twinkling of their own accord, although there’s a weariness to him now that wasn’t there before, and she can’t quite pinpoint how or where in his face it’s appeared, it’s just there, hanging around him, like an aura.

He looks good, though, and it takes everything in her not to run into his arms, realizing as she looks at him that none of the feelings she had for him have lessened in his absence; if anything, she’s more desperate for him now than she’s ever been.

“Juliet O’Hara,” he says, smiling, looking her over, and she’s grateful now, for the omission of her nickname, although the absence of it also makes her want to cry.

“Shawn,” she says, and in her frazzled state, she jostles her cart, spilling her purse, causing them both to laugh awkwardly.

She tries to think of something to say. There are too many things to say, and yet nothing to say, all at once. “I didn’t know you were in town,” she says, finally, which is true, and she tries to think of the last time she saw Gus or Henry. Surely they would have told her; they always tried to subtly give her the little information they had about him.

He shrugs. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.”

She smiles politely, “Gus is going to be so excited.”

“I can almost see the smile on his sweet brown face,” he agrees.

“So, what…what are you doing here?” she asks.

He holds up the six-pack of beer he’s carrying in one hand, and then the cans of pineapple juice he holds in the other. “Going to see my dad, had to bring him something.”

She nods, then shakes her head. “No, I mean, what are you doing _here,_ back in Santa Barbara?” She hopes the question doesn’t sound charged—she doesn’t mean it to. She just really wants to know.

“Oh,” he shrugs. “I just thought it might be…time.”

She nods, trying not to read any meaning into that, fighting to maintain the polite smile while her insides are still charged with adrenaline from his surprise appearance.

He frowns. “So, what are _you_ doing here? Like, _here_ , here? Grocery shopping on Christmas Eve, all by yourself?”

She waves the question off, running a hand through her hair. “Oh, you know, worked late, didn’t have a lot of holiday time this year.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not the truth, either.

“Chief Vick still runs a tight ship, huh?,” he asks.

She nods, “well, not as tight as you remember, probably, since there’s a lot less rule-breaking going on.”

He recognizes the teasing and smiles at her. “Lassie didn’t pick up where I left off? Geez, I’m hurt. It’s almost as if my legacy means _nothing_ to that man.”

She smiles back, a real one this time.

“So, if you don’t have plans,” he says, and she unconsciously sucks in a breath, “will you come have a drink with me?” There’s pleading in his eyes, and after all this time, she doesn’t have it in her to turn it down.

But there’s still practicality in her. “Shawn, it’s Christmas Eve. There’s nowhere in town that’s going to be open.”

He shrugs. “Pineapple juice, then. We can sit in my car.”

She’s glad he doesn’t invite himself over; she’s not sure she has the strength to turn him down. So she nods, shrugging. It’s a bad idea, probably, but she knows herself well enough to know she’d never forgive herself for not spending the time with him that he’s asking for. She thinks again about Matthew, never asking anything of her. Shawn asks for whatever he wants--he always has. It’s almost comforting to know that that hasn’t changed.

Then something else occurs to her. “Wait, you have a car?”

He shrugs again. “I always planned on selling the Norton. I—I made a promise.” He doesn’t meet her eyes as he says it, and she knows that he’s thinking about a moment, long ago, on a bridge in Canada. It’s still too painful for her to think about.

He clears his throat as they head down the aisle. “Anyway, I sold it a couple years back. A car is better, in a lot of ways, for living on the road, anyway."

They head to the register, an awkward silence settling over them. Shawn buys the beer and pineapple juice. Juliet is hardly even aware of her own purchases. Maybe she buys the vegetables that had been in her hand when she first saw him, but once her things are packed into a paper bag, she realizes that she’s not even sure.

They head out to the darkened, abandoned parking lot, and Shawn leads her towards the edge of the lot, towards his car—one of the only ones in the lot, besides her own. He’s got a truck, like his dad, and for some reason that makes her smile, although Shawn’s has a second row of seats behind the driver, which seems to contain most of his possessions. He adds his grocery bag to the pile of things in the back as they climb in.

He goes to hand her a pineapple juice, and then, thinking better of it, leans into the backseat, grabbing a beer from the six-pack he bought and handing it to her. “I’ll tell my dad I was robbed by elves.”

He taps his can of pineapple juice against her beer bottle, a kind of cheers.

“To old times,” she offers, by way of a toast. It feels hollow. She feels the awkwardness settle around them, an awkwardness she never imagined to feel with Shawn.

But she chooses not to show it, simply smiling instead, for the moment not caring that she’s drinking a beer in the car—decidedly _not_ exemplary behavior for an officer of the law--so she hopes that whoever’s patrolling tonight will not pass through this part of town. They’re parked, anyway, so it’s not a violation of the county’s open container laws—although it’s not wise, and she would never ordinarily even consider it--but she’ll only have one. Besides, Shawn’s not drinking, which would be the real legal issue, and it’s Christmas, and they’re alone, and none of this even seems to make any sense, and given how nervous she is, she’d rather have a beer than a pineapple juice.

They take a drink in silence, and she wonders if this was a terrible mistake, and not just because she still feels uneasy about open container laws, even though she _knows_ she’s not in violation.

“You remember that time, at the resort that couple robbed us at, when you said you’d still look good when I’m 140?” Shawn asks, finally.

She laughs. “Of all the things I expected you to ask me after all this time, I have to say that that wasn’t on the list. But sure, I remember.”

She does, and it hurts to think about that time, how happy she was in that moment, committed to Shawn, and he to her.

“Well,” he says, “I wholeheartedly agreed with you then, and if the last five years have been any indication, I stand by that.”

She laughs, but feels a slight blush rise in her cheeks. “I mean, we’re not _much_ older, but thanks? I think?”

“I just forgot how blue your eyes were,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t _forget_ forget, but…my God, they’re like Smurfs!”

She’s laughing in earnest now. “I can honestly say that I don’t know how to take that.”

“What I mean is, they’re still just as blue,” he says. “Not that I thought they would change or anything, but time has been…good to you, like I expected.”

It’s a softer compliment than she’s used to from him (the Smurfs comment is much more of a traditional Shawn fare), and she’s not entirely sure she believes him, having watched herself age rapidly over the last five years, weary with missing him, with being unsettled, unhappy, but she fixes what she hopes is a grateful smile on her face. “Thank you."

He nods, and they take another drink. He asks about Lassie, about the department, the Chief, Buzz, and she watches his face as she answers, seeing the way pain flashes in his eyes sometimes. She can see how clearly he misses it, the department, which was just as much his family as it was hers before he left, and it gives her a little lift, a little feeling of hope. He’s been gone, but _maybe_ he’s not entirely gone after all.

After a while, they’ve exhausted the department topics, and finally he asks about her, what she’s been doing for the last few years.

 _Not much_ , she thinks. _Cases, paperwork, and missing you pretty much sums it up_. Reluctantly, she tells him about Matthew, and she watches the pain cross his face again, settling in deeper this time than the momentary flashes she’d seen before.

“Is it serious? I mean is it—you know, is he the one?” For a moment, his eyes look fearful, as though he doesn’t want to know the answer, but knows himself well enough to know he has to have it. She tries not to read into that, pushes away the thrill that goes through her when it comes.

 _Of course not,_ she thinks. _You were the one. You still are. You were_ it _for me._

She shrugs, deflecting. “I mean, we’re getting older, Shawn. Isn’t it all kind of serious?”

He bites his lip, sucking in a breath. “Guess so.” She can still hear the question he hasn’t asked. _Do you love him?_

She chooses not to volunteer an answer to the unspoken question. She doesn’t, and she’s never liked to lie, something Shawn knows better than anyone. 

“He’s a good guy,” she says lightly, at last, biting back the preface she wants to add. _He’s not_ you _, but he’s here. And you aren’t._

“He’s good to me,” she adds, feeling the need to say something else, and his face falls, like she’s watching his heart shatter in real time. She can still read his mind, after all this time—he’s filled in the gap at the end of her statement as if she’s said, “and you weren’t”, and now he’s thinking of the way he failed her, and she hates herself for the way it still breaks him, when she’s long since forgiven him.

She wants to fill the silence, make him think about something else, so he doesn’t just sit there _hurting_. “What about you? Is there—is there anyone?”

He shakes his head, reacting too quickly, still looking wounded. “No.” He pauses for a second, then continues. “There—there hasn’t been.” He doesn’t fill in the words he wants to say, a game he’s playing to match hers. _There hasn’t been anyone since you. How could there be? How could there be_ anyone _after you?_

“I saw some of the cases you’ve solved since you left,” she says. “Your dad showed me some of the clippings. It seems like you’re doing well.”

He shrugs. “I don’t stay in any place for too long, anymore,” he says. “It’s fun, but it’s not like here. I solve a case, and then I move on, you know? It’s not—well, the fun part here was all the in-between, working with Gus, the Psych office, teasing Lassie, being with--,” his voice breaks on the last word, and he swallows, “you,” he finishes.

She smiles gently, but she feels the sadness in her as she thinks about him, out on the road again after all those years, no place to call home, no one to come back to.

He looks at her seriously. “I’ve never used the psychic thing again,” he says. “I always—I always came up with something else. But after everything with us, I couldn’t—I would never--.” He breaks up, not finishing his sentence, but she understands. It’s an apology of sorts, a way of acknowledging the old hurt from all those years ago.

She nods. “It’s okay, you know,” she says, and she hopes he understands what she means. Looking at him, here, now, there’s nothing she wouldn’t forgive, because it’s _Shawn_ , and she loves him still—always—and she sees so clearly that his hurt, his heartbreak, his sorrow matches hers, and she can’t take that.

He shakes his head. “No, Jules—Juliet.” He slips into the intimacy of her familiar name, then recovers, and she feels her heart break a little bit more, to think he’s no longer comfortable enough, in this moment, with _her_ , to use the name that belongs to him more than it even does her.

“It’s not okay,” he continues. “None of it is okay. I lied to you, and I am so, so sorry. I’ve owed you that apology for so long, long before you even,” he pauses, swallowing, “found out, and I’m sorry it took me this long to say it. I hurt you, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I _know_ you’ve heard from my dad some of the things that I’ve done, so, you know this is legitimate.” He smiles weakly, and she returns it.

“I know I can never make that up to you, even if you wanted me to,” he says. “But even though it’s all wrong, I want you to know how sorry I am.” He pauses for a moment, then continues, “like Dr. Octopus in _Spider-Man 2_.”

Juliet frowns, but feels the corners of her mouth turning up—he’s making this reference for her, remembering her love of comic books and all that goes with them. “I’m not sure if that’s the apology you think it is,” she says, giggling.

Shawn chuckles too. “That’s…fair, it’s not great, but he—he did the right thing in the end, even though it took him…,” he pauses, back to being serious, and she’s not sure if he’s going to trail off or finish his thought. “A while,” he finishes softly.

They’re both silent for a moment.

“Shawn, I forgave you for all of that years ago,” she says quietly.

He shakes his head. “You always forgave me a lot more than I deserved,” he says sincerely. “But this—Jules--,” and just like that, the intimacy has slipped back in, “especially this, I don’t deserve that forgiveness, for you to say that so easily.”

“Well,” she deadpans, “it has been five years.”

He smiles at that, but it’s broken, almost hollow, and she can see the wheels turning in his head just now, as he realizes that maybe the bigger mistake wasn’t what he did in the first place, it was leaving; it was never giving her the chance to _give him_ that forgiveness. It was making her mourn the man she loved _while he was still alive_. It was keeping himself out of her reach, never letting that forgiveness touch him, overtake him, allow them to start fresh again, even though they both knew, in their heart of hearts, that they were made for each other.

“I used to be obsessed with moments,” he says thoughtfully, at last. “I fixated on them, you can ask my dad. I was obsessed with watching for them, with never missing them, and of course, when I did, I was obsessed with replaying them, seeing them again, figuring out at which exact second I went wrong. But with this, with you, with what I did, there were too many moments in which I chose wrong. You remember that moment on the pier, the first time Yang was after us, when I pitched the phone into the water?”

She nods, not knowing where he’s going with this.

“Every moment with you, the stakes were just as high as that one,” he said. “Only I didn’t realize it, I took it for granted. _I chose wrong_.”

“ _Shawn_ ,” she says, and she knows he can hear the heartbreak in it, but she hopes he doesn’t misread it. Her heart is breaking for him now, not for what he did then.

But he doesn’t let her interrupt, which is actually good, since she’s at a loss for words. Instead, he continues, “I chose to lie, at first, and even though after that, it was less of a choice than just allowing it to continue, I never chose to stop. I never chose to tell you the truth. And I hate that I did that to you, that I let you find out instead of telling you. You deserved to hear it from me, even though you never deserved for me to do it in the first place.”

She nods slowly, but she doesn’t need this from him. Maybe she did once, but she doesn’t anymore. Now, she just wants him to stop hurting. She needs him to know what parts of their past _actually_ still really matter to her. “Shawn, you lied about a lot of things,” she says, and he hangs his head. “But,” she says, putting her hand gently on his arm, “I don’t think you ever lied about how you felt about me, did you?”

He looks up at her, his eyes widening. She can see something different in them now—something like hope. “God, no,” he whispers. “Never. I’ve never—I’ve never loved anyone, _anything_ even close to as much as you.” He seems startled by the sincerity, so he hastily adds, “and that includes solving cases, jerk chicken, and Sherilynn Fenn in _Twin Peaks_ , which you _know_ was my favorite part about that show.”

She looks at him, biting her lip to keep from crying, and for a moment they sit in silence again. She’s not sure what to make of what he just said—the past tense of “love” is confusing to her, when she knows she loves him still, and yet what he actually _said_ about the way he felt for her is so moving that if she opens her mouth now, she knows she’ll cry.

They’ve been quiet for a minute too long, and Juliet wonders if they’ve run out of things to say. Shawn never used to run out of things to say, but then, she thinks, that was a long time ago. It was all a long time ago.

And yet, she still knows him well enough to wonder if maybe his silence still functions the way it used to—before, he used to only go silent when he was debating whether or not to say something, something that really mattered, and he was trying to choose the right words to go about it.

Finally, he blurts out, “I still miss you, you know.”

She turns to look at him. “What?”

“I—I still miss you. All the time. Gus always says I obsess about things until I get them out of my system, like my mind is like a hamster wheel, but with you I…I never could get it out. I miss you all the time.” He frowns, pauses, swallowing. “Right now, even.”

He looks at her, and his eyes are wide, serious. She can see the emptiness in him, the kind that she has felt for the last five years, the raw ache inside of her that has been ever-present, never fading, since the day she heard that he left. Shawn feels that ache too, she can tell.

And so, before she even knows she’s doing it, she’s reaching for him, and the familiarity of the way his lips feel against hers makes her insides feel like they’re melting, finally thawing after five years of being frozen. Their kiss is passionate, frantic—heavy with the sense that maybe they’re running out of time, the way that they had felt the very first time she’d ever kissed him, a lifetime ago, in Declan’s foyer.

This moment is so much like that one—she’s forgotten, for a moment, that she has a boyfriend (even though, once again, she’s in a relationship that she knows is failing, was only ever meant as a placeholder), that she and Shawn haven’t talked, really _talked_ , about anything serious. All she knows is that she is still in love with him, and with the look he just gave her, the words that just came out of his mouth, she would follow him anywhere, just so that they would never have to be separated again. She continues kissing him—frantically, desperately, perhaps a little messily, even, and it doesn’t matter, because if this is the only chance she gets, she’s not going to waste one second leaving him any doubts of how much she’s missed him. And from his enthusiastic response, she thinks maybe they are still in sync; after all this time, he can still understand her wordless movements, reading in them all the things she means to say but can’t quite form the words for.

After a moment, though, the kiss becomes something altogether different; gentle, slow, breathtakingly fragile, like they both are scared of how fleeting this moment is, and they want to make it last as long as they possibly can, make it last forever, if there’s a way.

She’s hardly got the mental capacity to pay attention to his hands, but she recognizes the weight, the warmth of them on her back as he tries to pull her closer to him, and it feels like home. With all the things she’s missed about him, she forgot to notice how much she missed his hands. Her hands, for their part, are cupping his cheeks, grazing against his stubble, trying to draw herself nearer to him because this is as good as it gets, and she knows the second this moment is broken, it could all be lost.

She threads one hand through his hair, the way she used to, before everything went wrong, and she wonders if they really will _have_ to leave this moment, if maybe there is a way they could just freeze time and stay here in this moment, this moment where none of the hurt of the last five years even matters, because they’re together again at last, and he is her entire world, like he never left in the first place.

When they finally break apart, Shawn rests her forehead against Juliet’s. _“Jules_ ,” he breathes, and hearing her name again—the name only _he_ is allowed to call her—is almost too much for her to take.

They rest against each other, their eyes staying closed, both of them trying desperately to catch up with this moment that seems like a dream, too good to be true when it’s all they’ve wanted for five years.

“Jules, I—I need to know,” he hesitates, and the look in his eyes is so afraid that it almost takes her back to that night, that terrible night, the last time she _really_ looked at him, when it all unraveled. He takes a deep breath, his eyes darting around anxiously. “Is this—is this just for old times’ sake or is there…do you think there’s any way--?”

He’s cut off again by Juliet’s lips on his, because even the few brief moments that they’d been separated were too long for her, now that she knows what it is to be in his arms again, to be close to him again, to feel all the warmth and familiarity and _indescribable-ness_ that _is_ Shawn.

It’s a shorter kiss this time, but just as loving, just as gentle, just as passionate. When they pull apart, they’re both breathing heavily.

“Okay,” Shawn says softly, “okay, I hate to be botanic, Jules--.”

“Pedantic?”

He smiles, and there, finally, is the smile she’s missed so much. Even five years older, he is exactly the Shawn he knows, the Shawn she’s thought about every second of the last five years.

“I’ve heard it both ways.” She could have melted into him.

“But seriously,” he says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I _love_ how you answered my question, but also, you… didn’t really answer my question.” He clears his throat, still trying to catch his breath. “What I’m asking is, are we—is this real?” She can see the fear written on his face, mixed with a hope he’s trying not to let in.

She smiles gently at him, hoping it’s encouraging. “Shawn, if _this_ is a moment on the pier, what do you choose?”

He doesn’t speak at first, just pulls her into his arms, and this time, the feeling of home, of rightness, of _Christmas_ , at last, is so tangible that she does begin to cry. She pulls back for a minute, looking into his eyes as tears begin to fall silently down her face. “Come home,” she whispers.

He nods, wordlessly, his own eyes filling up to match hers, and pulls her back against his chest.

“I’m never going to choose wrong again,” he says quietly into her hair.

She laughs softly. “Don’t say that in front of Carlton, or he’ll never let you live it down on any case you work.”

He pulls back again. “You mean—you think---I can start working cases again? As Psych?”

She smiles at him, joy overtaking her. “Didn’t I just ask you to come home?”

He lifts his pineapple juice can out of the cupholder, tapping her beer bottle in the cupholder next to it in the same clumsy way he had before. “Here’s to now,” he says, and then he puts it down, pulling her back towards him, his lips meeting hers with a familiarity she adores, and a fire that’s entirely new.

There’s still a lot to sort out, the past, the present—Matthew—and, of course, the future, but in this moment, she puts all of that aside. This moment is everything she ever wanted, everything she couldn’t imagine she would ever have. And she realizes that in _this_ moment—here, being with him after all this time spent missing him, longing for him—she, too, is finally making her way back home.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized that if Shawn had left, Trout probably never would have made his appearance—the whole squad might have stayed in Santa Barbara. So, I left them all there. :)
> 
> I so hope you enjoyed this! Like I said, I’ve never written real AU, and I don’t imagine I’ll write a ton of it, but I had a lot of fun with this piece! I would absolutely love to hear any thoughts on it! Thank you so very much for reading and for all the encouraging and wonderful comments on my work this year!
> 
> Happy New Year, all!


End file.
